glass hope and mermaid bones
by songs
Summary: a girl of moonwater, a boy of seaglass, and their story; — annie ო finnick.


**title: **glass hope and mermaid bones

**pairings: **annie ო finnick.

**notes: **spoilers for all 3 books!

**disclaimer: **own nothing

* * *

_before & after:_

* * *

_i._

Annie Cresta is a girl of moonwater. _Pearl-boned, island-daughter_— a District Four, mermaid-child, through and through. Before her reaping, she is: an ex-schoolmate, a little luna. Pretty and pure, swimming along the sealine in her skirts.

(Finnick will never admit it, but he's always gone a bit starry-eyed over her. She's not especially lovely or interesting, but wherever she is, his eyes always seem to follow. He doesn't know what it means. But he doesn't mind, either.)

She sells ocean-jewelry and is wealthy enough to live along the edge of Victor's Village. She is still as soft-hearted as she was as a child, he notices; she smuggles little bracelets and rings into ribboned-bags, handing them off for free to hungry-eyed boys and girls, who will no doubt trade these jewel-gifts near the fish-market.

"…You'll never make a living that way."

He realizes he's spoken aloud, realizes he's been watching her and that she now knows he's been watching her and _damn_, that's probably pretty creepy, and he's Finnick Odair, _he can't afford to be creepy_. But Annie Cresta only laughs, high as bell-chimes, her hands tracing over the seafoam gems spread for sale.

"Why, if it isn't Finnick Odair." Annie's eyes are glowing. "And here I thought you didn't even know I existed."

He coughs gracelessly, aware of the redness flooding into his cheeks.

"We went to grade-school together," he says quickly, looking away from her.

"We did, didn't we?" she asks, in her hummingbird voice. "Mm. I dropped out a year after you were reaped. Grams couldn't afford it, anymore."

He blinks at her, and his confusion must be visible, because she turns away, blushing. "Sorry. I babble, sometimes."

His lips quirk into a gentle smile—it's strange, really, speaking to someone as simple as Annie Cresta.

He walks forward, leaning over her display. She does not balk at their closeness, but he hears her breath hitch when he picks up a sea-glass bracelet, holding it up against the brightness of her eyes.

"How much for this one?"

That is their beginning.

* * *

_ii._

Annie cannot figure out Finnick Odair.

She remembers crushing on him in elementary school; she remembers peering at him over her school-books, during training exercises. Remembers seeing his eyes in the bracelets and necklaces she pitched together for sale.

She also remembers him not ever once speaking to her.

Sure, he would stare at her sometimes. She chalked it up to the strange shape of her face, her catlike eyes, her ever-pale skin. After he was reaped, she remembers watching his Games with her fingernails in her teeth. Her child-love, unrequited, thrown to the lion's den.

And now: two years after his victory, the Capitol's Darling has come home. He's grown into his own bones—Finnick is even more handsome than she remembered him, even more lovely than the television screens could capture.

And, as Annie notices, after his strange visit to her jewelry stand: his eyes are infinitely more sad.

After he buys the bracelet—which clashes with his eyes but matches the pallid shape of her own—he comes back again. And again. And again.

The ocean-gems gleam from his wrist and he's grinning—but it's all teeth and little purpose. He has his game-face on; the same face he's been wearing for two years now.

"Hello, Annie Cresta."

She clears her throat: "Hello, Finnick Odair."

He leans back into the air, hands in his short-pockets, when he asks: "So, what've you been up to, these past years? You said you quit school?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she retorts, easily enough, and his face falls for a split-second, but she catches it. "But I've been manning this stand, is all. It's Grams' legacy. The _Cresta's Oyster_, a shell of gems."

Finnick is staring at her. And Annie doesn't know what to do, so she keeps talking: "It's quiet. But Four's always been this way. We're doing well—well enough. But sometimes enough isn't enough, you know? I don't train, anymore. Not since I was thirteen. But _you _only trained up until thirteen, and you were great in the Games—"

Finnick flinches, and Annie's mouth shapes into the word _oh._

She backtracks instantly: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I mean, not that you weren't great, but I mean, I know the Games aren't good memories, and I—"

Her babbling apology is cut off by the bright, open sound of Finnick's laughter. She's heard him laugh, seen him smile—on TV, at ceremonies, with glittering girls on his arm and half-meant monologues in his throat. But never like this. Not since a long, long time ago, when they were still children, before the world around them set in.

"I like you, Annie Cresta," he tells her.

When he leaves, he waves with her bracelet on his wrist.

* * *

_iii._

His visits become longer and happen more often. Soon, she finds herself closing up shop early and spending her sunsets with Finnick, near the shoreline, sometimes swimming, sometimes not.

She touches him first.

It's innocent, shy for a girl and boy of sixteen. She slips her hand into his, and for a life-long, heartbreaking moment, his palm is stiff. And then he clutches back, twice as tight.

* * *

_iv._

Annie imagines that Finnick has kissed and been kissed a million times.

But when his lips ghost over hers, she feels like she's his first.

* * *

_v._

Annie doesn't know what happens in the Capitol, but when Finnick returns after a month-long visit (_work, _he said, _he had work to do_), he looks less like himself and more like a faded copy. Hollow along the edges, and in the eyes.

When she moves to touch him, he shies away. A constellation of blurred bruises trail down his neck—present still, even beneath the mask of powder and makeup.

And that is when she knows.

"Oh, Finn."

He smiles, ignoring the pained note in her voice. "Hello, Annie Cresta."

"Why," she says, voice breaking. "If it isn't Finnick Odair."

She does not try to hold him again. They stay like this for a while—silent and apart, but still ever-present, with her sea-stand between them.

And the look in his eyes is grateful.

* * *

_vi._

They are star-children again, hiding out in a beachside cave, huddled for warmth in the damp stone-walls.

"The Reaping is tomorrow," she whispers. "Will you be okay? Going back, and mentoring again?"

He squeezes her hand, before tentatively leaning in to kiss her cheek. She blushes.

"Don't worry about me," he tells her, and she tries to believe him.

* * *

_vii._

In the end, Finnick is right. It isn't him she should have been worried about.

_"…Annie Cresta!"_

She hears her name in the announcer's voice, and it's almost like a dream, almost, almost, until she sees Finnick's eyes break like stardust, guiding her towards him on the stage, forward, forward, like always.

* * *

_viii_.

On the train-ride to the capital, when everyone is asleep, she sneaks into Finnick's room.

He's standing by the door, and it's like he's been waiting. The first thing he does it kiss her, hard on the mouth, and she bends to him like water.

Between breaths she murmurs: "Am I going to die? Finn, am I going to die?

She doesn't realize she's crying until she feels him kiss away at her tears.

"I won't let you," he says.

She trusts him.

* * *

_ix_.

Finnick is the first boy to see her naked.

He kisses every part of her—gentle and tender—and as she lies beneath him, holding onto him by the bones of his shoulders, she wonders if she's ever felt a more heartbreaking goodbye.

* * *

_x._

_It's for her, for her, for her_—he thinks. Women dragging their nails down his back, blooming blood-rivers, men holding him down, roping his ankles. Every touch, every prick, every kiss.

For her.

He swears on his soul: Annie Cresta will live.

* * *

_xi._

She does.

* * *

_xii._

Blue. Green. The sea scares her. The sky scares her. The sky is the sea without the water; the water was heavy in her lungs. But she could swim. Annie could always swim. She is from District Four, after all. Island of bone-legged mermaids.

After everything, Finnick is the first one to rush to her. He latches onto her like a lifeline—like he was the one dying, which he was, she's sure, he was dying to keep her from dying. That's the Games for you. The dead are dead and the living are dead and still playing, still, still playing.

"His head," she screeches into Finnick's neck. "His head, his head, his head—"

"Shhh, Annie," he murmurs. "You're safe, now."

* * *

_xiii_.

She is.

But she isn't.

* * *

_xiv_.

She dreams of Finnick's head rolling off into the sea. She dreams of his eyes breaking into seawater and drowning, drowning, drowning her, drowning him. She dreams of Finnick fallen into the seawater of his eyes, naked and bruised and crumpled: _Annie Cresta, I won't let you die on me, _he says, brokenly. _Annie, Annie, Annie Cresta._

* * *

_xv._

She wakes up screaming: _she killed them. She killed him. She's been killing herself, too._

* * *

_xvi._

Her hands are always red and her eyes are always stinging with saltwater.

Finnick holds her. She wonders just when she became the more broken one. No one's ever hurt her. She's the one hurting everyone else.

He kisses her cheek. They're sitting along the sea. Home at last. Alive. Victor, victor.

Free.

* * *

_xvii._

And sometimes, everything is sharp again. Sometimes, the ocean is beautiful, and sometimes she can hear Finnick's heartbeat for the music that it is. Sometimes she lets herself forget about the heads in the ocean and the water in her lungs and he says:

"Hello, Annie Cresta."

_( He is always holding her. How many people have held him, just so he could hold her? Her heart breaks.)_

"Why hello," she murmurs. "Finnick Odair."

* * *

ჯ


End file.
